The Heart of a Small Boy:
An Interview with Robert Bloch
by Matthew R. Bradley
An Interview with Robert Bloch
by Matthew R. Bradley
(Contrary to popular belief, “author of Psycho” is not Robert Bloch’s middle name, though it is perhaps inevitable that he is best known as the creator of the world’s most famous fictional serial killer, Norman Bates. Born in Chicago in 1917, Bloch became an avid reader of Weird Tales at the age of ten, and in 1933 began corresponding with its celebrated contributor, H.P. Lovecraft. Though Lovecraft died before they could ever meet, he did urge Bloch to try his own hand at writing, and as a result his first published story, “Lilies,” appeared in Marvel Tales early in 1934.
Sixty years later, Bloch, who now lives with his second wife in Los Angeles, shows no sign of slowing down, having since turned out more than two dozen novels; hundreds of short stories; numerous television, film, and radio scripts; and an “unauthorized autobiography,” Once Around the Bloch, recently published by Tor Books. His many honors include the Howard and Stoker Awards for Life Achievement, the Grand Master Award from the first World Horror Convention, and two Hugo Awards.
Ironically, Psycho, which was faithfully adapted by Joseph Stefano for the 1960 Alfred Hitchcock classic, is the only one of Bloch’s novels to be filmed. His own screenwriting work includes original scripts (Strait-Jacket, The Night Walker); adaptations of other writers’ work (A.F. Heard’s A Taste for Honey, filmed as The Deadly Bees) and his own short stories, a dozen of which he incorporated into three of the anthology films produced by England’s Amicus Productions (Torture Garden, The House That Dripped Blood, and Asylum); and teleplays for such series as Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Thriller, Star Trek, Journey to the Unknown, Night Gallery, and Darkroom. His scripts have been filmed by such major genre directors as William Castle, Freddie Francis, Curtis Harrington, and Roy Ward Baker, and I asked if he had any favorites among them, personally or professionally.
RB: Directors bring out the schizoid in me. My personal attitude toward them is subjective, but my professional attitude is objective. At least I try to keep it that way. Of the directors you name, I worked with William Castle and Curtis Harrington on several occasions and got to know them both personally and professionally. Bill Castle and I got along on the personal level, but there were times when I took issue with his directorial decisions. Curtis always seemed to see eye-to-eye with me, probably because we both share opinions on films and a love for the days when they were still called movies.
MRB: While we’re on that subject, you have written memorably, in your autobiography and elsewhere, of enjoying the silent and Golden Age horror films in your youth. What influence have these films had on your work?
RB: The horror films I saw in the ’20s and ’30s certainly influenced my work—not just scripts but in novels and short stories as well. One of the things which impressed me about those early horror pictures was that their heroes were almost invariably idiots or wimps—and in some cases, both. Norman Kerry, in The Phantom of the Opera [1925], is your typical idiot. He eavesdrops on the heroine conversing with a strange man in her dressing-room, then sneaks in himself when she exits. He finds nobody else is there—and promptly does nothing about it. As her genuine peril increases he continues to do nothing about it, until at last she tells him this weird story about her abduction by the mysterious Phantom who has terrified the Opera and threatened to wreak vengeance on a cast of thousands. Does our hero go to the authorities? You know better than that. The best he can come up with is running away with the heroine, and tells her a carriage will wait for her outside when she finishes her performance; the show must go on. And when she’s abducted, he finally does go after her, guided by a mysterious man whom he’s never met and knows nothing about. But before he goes off on this dangerous mission he takes great pains not to bother informing the police or anyone else. There are many such idiots in those films, and no shortage of wimps who, like Creighton Hale in The Cat and the Canary [1927], spend seven reels running scared and then uncharacteristically turn brave for a few moments in reel eight. This is supposed to redeem such characters in the eyes of the audience, but mine only sparkled when I watched the villains. It was the heavy who had most of the smarts in most of the horror films. kay, so he was a little odd, perhaps, and maybe not so much in the looks department—but he was the guy to arrest for stealing the picture. And, in such a picture he was the star. It was [Lon] Chaney you went to see, not Kerry. Colin Clive created the [Frankenstein] monster, but it’s [Boris] Karloff who immortalized him and in so doing, immortalized himself; there’s no Colin Clive cult. [Bela] Lugosi and [Lionel] Atwill and [Peter] Lorre and [Vincent] Price and [Basil] Rathbone can still command their rightful places in horror-film history, but I doubt if you can ever expect to see many David Manners retrospectives. Having learned this, it’s no wonder I decided to write about villains instead of idiots.
MRB: Many writers whose work has been through the Hollywood mill might consider you fortunate to have been given the chance to adapt your own work for the screen on so many occasions. Do you find doing so more or less difficult than adapting the work of others?
RB: It has always been easier for me to adapt my own work—although not always so easy to actually get my adapted version onscreen. Handling others writers’ material can be tricky—there are times when one must use kid gloves, other times when one’s fingers may itch for a shredder. I respect the efforts of my colleagues, and their feelings about those efforts, but both they and myself have to face the realities of fantasy-film making. The trick is to translate the verbal into the visual, and it’s easier with one’s own output—and input.
MRB: Were you ever offered the chance to adapt the work of your youthful idol and longtime correspondent, H.P. Lovecraft?
RB: No one has ever offered me an assignment to work on a Lovecraft story for films. I imagine they’d be afraid I might actually try to use that story instead of just the title and a few character-names.
MRB: Your oft-quoted line about having the heart of a small boy and keeping it in a jar on your desk (subsequently—and incorrectly—attributed to Stephen King) exemplifies the strong current of humor in your work. Would you comment on its use in your screenplays in particular?
RB: Once in a while I’ve sneaked a funny line into a film script or a teleplay, but usually it’s cut. Apparently I’m supposed to be sharpening knives rather than wits.
MRB: Do you have a favorite among the TV series you’ve written for?
RB: My own favorite among the series I’ve worked on would be Thriller, probably because it was the one which was most permissive when I tried to inject light touches into some of these efforts. Every Hamlet wants to be a clown.
MRB: Hitchcock himself said that “Psycho all came from Robert Bloch’s book.” Yet Joseph Stefano recently said of Norman Bates in an interview that “this was a character I invented, it is not the same character as the one in the book…” Do such statements downplaying your own contribution to the film’s success make you want to pick up a butcher knife and emulate Norman?
RB: I tend to agree with Hitchcock’s statement rather than Stefano’s. But since there is a book called Psycho which, over the years, has had forty-odd printings in some twenty-two languages worldwide, I suggest that anyone who entertains doubts should hunt up a copy of the novel and come to their own conclusions. As my character in the book says, “Perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times,” and I can understand differences of judgment. As for going after anyone with a butcher knife, heaven forbid! As my character in the book says, “Why, I wouldn’t even harm a fly.”
MRB: What was your opinion of Stefano’s probing into Norman’s background in the made-for-cable movie Psycho IV: The Beginning (1990)?
RB: Anyone who spends time in this so-called industry knows—and must be resigned to the fact—that others will seek to improve, or at least, improvise when the opportunity presents itself. But since I’ve not seen the film in question—we don’t have cable—I’m in no position to comment on it.
MRB: After seeing your script for The Couch (1961) drastically altered in filming, and fighting to retain credit for The Cabinet of Caligari (1962), did you consider abandoning screenwriting altogether?
RB: Such problems have to be expected in film or television work; they come with the territory. As someone—was it Hitchcock, Stefano, Tony Perkins, or maybe even I?—once said, “If you can’t stand the stabbing, get out of the shower.”
MRB: While writing Strait-Jacket (1963) for Joan Crawford and William Castle, were you influenced by the previous year’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
RB: Not that I’m aware of. But it seems to me that [Robert] Aldrich’s follow-up film, Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte [1964], was very definitely influenced by Diabolique [1955]—and by Strait-Jacket.
MRB: Many consider your second script for Castle, The Night Walker (1964), to be among your most inventive and intriguing, yet you were unhappy with the finished film. What went wrong?
RB: Casting and Castle. Barbara Stanwyck, once one got to know her, proved to be as vulnerable as the rest of us, but her screen persona was, by this time in her career, that of a strong, I’m-in-charge-here lady. Which was exactly wrong for the harried heroine of my screenplay; she should have been played by a somewhat younger damsel who displayed more distress. Working with Missy was a delight; no wonder the crew loved her, and like Crawford she was a consummate pro. But she was cast against type, and it showed. So did the movements of actors supposedly playing window-dummies in one of the sequences. When I pointed this out to Bill Castle in the dailies he shrugged; it would cost too much to reshoot the scene, nobody was going to notice, and if they did, so what? It was this approach to filmmaking which, I believe, hurt the picture—as did the skimping on special effects. I contend it could have been a much better film if more care, time, and a little money, had been spent on it. But my own memories of Missy and of Bob Taylor are pleasant ones.
MRB: Freddie Francis, who directed four films based on your work for Amicus, is also an acclaimed cinematographer. How effective did you find his skull’s-eye-view shots in The Skull (1965)?
RB: I thought Francis’s skull’s-eye point-of-view shots were an inspired touch, perfectly in keeping with the campy, kinky mood of the film as a whole.
MRB: I’ve read that you adapted The Psychopath (1965) from one of your own unpublished stories. If this is true, has it been published since?
RB: Somebody misinformed you. [The statement was made by Amicus cofounder Milton Subotsky, quoted in John Brosnan’s The Horror People.] I’m embarrassed to say I had no unpublished stories lying around in 1965 and still don’t today. I don’t even have an old trunk to keep them in.
MRB: A staggering 40 minutes were reportedly cut from The Deadly Bees (1966) for its U.S. release. If so, considering your low opinion of the film after it was rewritten by Anthony Marriott, did this help or hurt?
RB: You’re coming up with a lot of things I didn’t know. This is the first I’ve heard about 40 minutes being cut from The Deadly Bees, and since I’ve only seen the version released here I’ve no basis for comparison. But in my autobiography, Once Around the Bloch, due out this summer, I write about my original plans for this picture. Reading this account will help explain why I was so greatly disappointed with the Bee-wildering results.
MRB: Though he has stated that “the script is the most important thing in film making,” Milton Subotsky has, ironically, also confessed his love for changing a film completely in the cutting room. Would you comment on the effect of this technique on such films you wrote for Amicus as The Psychopath and Torture Garden (1967)? Are there other notable examples of tampering with your scripts?
RB: A writer’s creations are his children, and nobody likes to see his child abused or molested.
MRB: You credit director Peter Duffell with transforming the last segment of The House That Dripped Blood (1971), “The Cloak,” into a comedy. How does it differ from your story and script?
RB: The film-studio touches, the atmospheric bits such as the background shot of the blood-donor campaign poster—these are proof positive of what an imaginative director can do to transform somewhat heavy-handed melodramatics into light comedy. But the trick is to do it with subtlety rather than the in-your-face techniques of today’s efforts; I think Peter Duffell knew exactly what was needed.
MRB: When writing The House That Dripped Blood and Asylum (1972), was it your idea to remake stories you had already adapted for Thriller (“The Weird Tailor” and “Waxworks”), or were the selections imposed on you?
RB: Amicus chose the stories, even though they were aware of previous radio and television versions I’d done. Personally, I prefer the teleplays.
MRB: Is it true that Asylum originally contained a humorous fifth segment that was trimmed before filming, and that the four segments that were filmed were reordered without your knowledge?
RB: That’s right. But I honestly can’t tell you what the other segment was, except that it too was adapted from a published story of mine. Its deletion is an example of what happens when I try to inject comedy into my scripts. Yes, the segments in Asylum were reordered without my being informed, and that wasn’t funny. What is now the first episode was written to be shown as the third; I felt that the mood and pace would be more effective in the order I chose. But I wrote my script in Los Angeles and the shoot was in England and never the twain shall meet.
MRB: As you’ve pointed out, your stories “Lucy Comes to Stay” and “The Real Bad Friend” may be considered precursors of Psycho. Were you afraid that including the former in Asylum might lead to accusations of merely trying to rehash your most famous story?
RB: I didn’t believe then, nor do I now, that many people confused my short story’s theme with that of Psycho. Or, for that matter, with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the father of them all.
MRB: Have you felt unduly constrained by the strictures of the medium while writing such projects as Curtis Harrington’s The Cat Creature (1973) and The Dead Don’t Die (1975) for television?
RB: The constraints of television are always a problem; again I must refer you to Once Around the Bloch for a complete account of the comedy of errors which ended up as The Cat Creature, through no fault of Curtis Harrington’s or producer Doug Cramer’s or, for that matter, mine.
MRB: How did you come to be involved with Irwin Allen’s miniseries The Amazing Captain Nemo (1978)? What was it like trying to continue the adventures of such a well-known and beloved character?
RB: That’s a question I still ask myself. Irwin Allen was, as you probably know, the greatest pitchman in the business. He made presentations with fabulous storyboards. Unfortunately, the stories which followed weren’t always that great. All I can painfully recall about The Amazing Captain Nemo is that the Captain wasn’t really amazing, or really very much like Jules Verne’s Nemo. After a script went through the producer’s hands it often ended up looking suspiciously like another Irwin Allen epic—usually a disaster.
MRB: Are there any of your works you’d particularly like to see adapted for the screen, or scripts you’ve written that were never filmed?
RB: I adapted my novel Night-World for MGM, but they never produced it. Since then a half-dozen other production outfits have approached me about the screen rights and I’ve referred them all to the present owners. Due to studio bookkeeping methods, with annual interest charges added to the cost of an unproduced property, I’d estimate that by now buying Night-World would cost slightly more than buying a complete studio at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with all the producers thrown in, which is exactly what I’d like to do with them. But I still believe the novel would translate into a successful film. I think the same holds true for several other books--American Gothic, Night of the Ripper or The Star-Stalker. And so would Lori. Then again, remember what I said about a writer’s creations being his children. It’s only natural for a proud parent to think his offspring would look good in pictures.
MRB: As one who has written horror stories for every medium for more than fifty years, what is your opinion of today’s horror films?
RB: If a filmmaker comes up with something as genuinely and justifiably frightening as The Silence of the Lambs, I’m all for it. But there’s more to true horror than sleaze-and-tease with revved-up soundtracks. As Anthony Hopkins demonstrated, it helps if the genre focuses on talented performances rather than making films which star special effects. What’s scary in real life can be scary onscreen without extra help. Remember that Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini wore no makeup. And neither do I.
Sixty years later, Bloch, who now lives with his second wife in Los Angeles, shows no sign of slowing down, having since turned out more than two dozen novels; hundreds of short stories; numerous television, film, and radio scripts; and an “unauthorized autobiography,” Once Around the Bloch, recently published by Tor Books. His many honors include the Howard and Stoker Awards for Life Achievement, the Grand Master Award from the first World Horror Convention, and two Hugo Awards.
Ironically, Psycho, which was faithfully adapted by Joseph Stefano for the 1960 Alfred Hitchcock classic, is the only one of Bloch’s novels to be filmed. His own screenwriting work includes original scripts (Strait-Jacket, The Night Walker); adaptations of other writers’ work (A.F. Heard’s A Taste for Honey, filmed as The Deadly Bees) and his own short stories, a dozen of which he incorporated into three of the anthology films produced by England’s Amicus Productions (Torture Garden, The House That Dripped Blood, and Asylum); and teleplays for such series as Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Thriller, Star Trek, Journey to the Unknown, Night Gallery, and Darkroom. His scripts have been filmed by such major genre directors as William Castle, Freddie Francis, Curtis Harrington, and Roy Ward Baker, and I asked if he had any favorites among them, personally or professionally.
RB: Directors bring out the schizoid in me. My personal attitude toward them is subjective, but my professional attitude is objective. At least I try to keep it that way. Of the directors you name, I worked with William Castle and Curtis Harrington on several occasions and got to know them both personally and professionally. Bill Castle and I got along on the personal level, but there were times when I took issue with his directorial decisions. Curtis always seemed to see eye-to-eye with me, probably because we both share opinions on films and a love for the days when they were still called movies.
MRB: While we’re on that subject, you have written memorably, in your autobiography and elsewhere, of enjoying the silent and Golden Age horror films in your youth. What influence have these films had on your work?
RB: The horror films I saw in the ’20s and ’30s certainly influenced my work—not just scripts but in novels and short stories as well. One of the things which impressed me about those early horror pictures was that their heroes were almost invariably idiots or wimps—and in some cases, both. Norman Kerry, in The Phantom of the Opera [1925], is your typical idiot. He eavesdrops on the heroine conversing with a strange man in her dressing-room, then sneaks in himself when she exits. He finds nobody else is there—and promptly does nothing about it. As her genuine peril increases he continues to do nothing about it, until at last she tells him this weird story about her abduction by the mysterious Phantom who has terrified the Opera and threatened to wreak vengeance on a cast of thousands. Does our hero go to the authorities? You know better than that. The best he can come up with is running away with the heroine, and tells her a carriage will wait for her outside when she finishes her performance; the show must go on. And when she’s abducted, he finally does go after her, guided by a mysterious man whom he’s never met and knows nothing about. But before he goes off on this dangerous mission he takes great pains not to bother informing the police or anyone else. There are many such idiots in those films, and no shortage of wimps who, like Creighton Hale in The Cat and the Canary [1927], spend seven reels running scared and then uncharacteristically turn brave for a few moments in reel eight. This is supposed to redeem such characters in the eyes of the audience, but mine only sparkled when I watched the villains. It was the heavy who had most of the smarts in most of the horror films. kay, so he was a little odd, perhaps, and maybe not so much in the looks department—but he was the guy to arrest for stealing the picture. And, in such a picture he was the star. It was [Lon] Chaney you went to see, not Kerry. Colin Clive created the [Frankenstein] monster, but it’s [Boris] Karloff who immortalized him and in so doing, immortalized himself; there’s no Colin Clive cult. [Bela] Lugosi and [Lionel] Atwill and [Peter] Lorre and [Vincent] Price and [Basil] Rathbone can still command their rightful places in horror-film history, but I doubt if you can ever expect to see many David Manners retrospectives. Having learned this, it’s no wonder I decided to write about villains instead of idiots.
MRB: Many writers whose work has been through the Hollywood mill might consider you fortunate to have been given the chance to adapt your own work for the screen on so many occasions. Do you find doing so more or less difficult than adapting the work of others?
RB: It has always been easier for me to adapt my own work—although not always so easy to actually get my adapted version onscreen. Handling others writers’ material can be tricky—there are times when one must use kid gloves, other times when one’s fingers may itch for a shredder. I respect the efforts of my colleagues, and their feelings about those efforts, but both they and myself have to face the realities of fantasy-film making. The trick is to translate the verbal into the visual, and it’s easier with one’s own output—and input.
MRB: Were you ever offered the chance to adapt the work of your youthful idol and longtime correspondent, H.P. Lovecraft?
RB: No one has ever offered me an assignment to work on a Lovecraft story for films. I imagine they’d be afraid I might actually try to use that story instead of just the title and a few character-names.
MRB: Your oft-quoted line about having the heart of a small boy and keeping it in a jar on your desk (subsequently—and incorrectly—attributed to Stephen King) exemplifies the strong current of humor in your work. Would you comment on its use in your screenplays in particular?
RB: Once in a while I’ve sneaked a funny line into a film script or a teleplay, but usually it’s cut. Apparently I’m supposed to be sharpening knives rather than wits.
MRB: Do you have a favorite among the TV series you’ve written for?
RB: My own favorite among the series I’ve worked on would be Thriller, probably because it was the one which was most permissive when I tried to inject light touches into some of these efforts. Every Hamlet wants to be a clown.
MRB: Hitchcock himself said that “Psycho all came from Robert Bloch’s book.” Yet Joseph Stefano recently said of Norman Bates in an interview that “this was a character I invented, it is not the same character as the one in the book…” Do such statements downplaying your own contribution to the film’s success make you want to pick up a butcher knife and emulate Norman?
RB: I tend to agree with Hitchcock’s statement rather than Stefano’s. But since there is a book called Psycho which, over the years, has had forty-odd printings in some twenty-two languages worldwide, I suggest that anyone who entertains doubts should hunt up a copy of the novel and come to their own conclusions. As my character in the book says, “Perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times,” and I can understand differences of judgment. As for going after anyone with a butcher knife, heaven forbid! As my character in the book says, “Why, I wouldn’t even harm a fly.”
MRB: What was your opinion of Stefano’s probing into Norman’s background in the made-for-cable movie Psycho IV: The Beginning (1990)?
RB: Anyone who spends time in this so-called industry knows—and must be resigned to the fact—that others will seek to improve, or at least, improvise when the opportunity presents itself. But since I’ve not seen the film in question—we don’t have cable—I’m in no position to comment on it.
MRB: After seeing your script for The Couch (1961) drastically altered in filming, and fighting to retain credit for The Cabinet of Caligari (1962), did you consider abandoning screenwriting altogether?
RB: Such problems have to be expected in film or television work; they come with the territory. As someone—was it Hitchcock, Stefano, Tony Perkins, or maybe even I?—once said, “If you can’t stand the stabbing, get out of the shower.”
MRB: While writing Strait-Jacket (1963) for Joan Crawford and William Castle, were you influenced by the previous year’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
RB: Not that I’m aware of. But it seems to me that [Robert] Aldrich’s follow-up film, Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte [1964], was very definitely influenced by Diabolique [1955]—and by Strait-Jacket.
MRB: Many consider your second script for Castle, The Night Walker (1964), to be among your most inventive and intriguing, yet you were unhappy with the finished film. What went wrong?
RB: Casting and Castle. Barbara Stanwyck, once one got to know her, proved to be as vulnerable as the rest of us, but her screen persona was, by this time in her career, that of a strong, I’m-in-charge-here lady. Which was exactly wrong for the harried heroine of my screenplay; she should have been played by a somewhat younger damsel who displayed more distress. Working with Missy was a delight; no wonder the crew loved her, and like Crawford she was a consummate pro. But she was cast against type, and it showed. So did the movements of actors supposedly playing window-dummies in one of the sequences. When I pointed this out to Bill Castle in the dailies he shrugged; it would cost too much to reshoot the scene, nobody was going to notice, and if they did, so what? It was this approach to filmmaking which, I believe, hurt the picture—as did the skimping on special effects. I contend it could have been a much better film if more care, time, and a little money, had been spent on it. But my own memories of Missy and of Bob Taylor are pleasant ones.
MRB: Freddie Francis, who directed four films based on your work for Amicus, is also an acclaimed cinematographer. How effective did you find his skull’s-eye-view shots in The Skull (1965)?
RB: I thought Francis’s skull’s-eye point-of-view shots were an inspired touch, perfectly in keeping with the campy, kinky mood of the film as a whole.
MRB: I’ve read that you adapted The Psychopath (1965) from one of your own unpublished stories. If this is true, has it been published since?
RB: Somebody misinformed you. [The statement was made by Amicus cofounder Milton Subotsky, quoted in John Brosnan’s The Horror People.] I’m embarrassed to say I had no unpublished stories lying around in 1965 and still don’t today. I don’t even have an old trunk to keep them in.
MRB: A staggering 40 minutes were reportedly cut from The Deadly Bees (1966) for its U.S. release. If so, considering your low opinion of the film after it was rewritten by Anthony Marriott, did this help or hurt?
RB: You’re coming up with a lot of things I didn’t know. This is the first I’ve heard about 40 minutes being cut from The Deadly Bees, and since I’ve only seen the version released here I’ve no basis for comparison. But in my autobiography, Once Around the Bloch, due out this summer, I write about my original plans for this picture. Reading this account will help explain why I was so greatly disappointed with the Bee-wildering results.
MRB: Though he has stated that “the script is the most important thing in film making,” Milton Subotsky has, ironically, also confessed his love for changing a film completely in the cutting room. Would you comment on the effect of this technique on such films you wrote for Amicus as The Psychopath and Torture Garden (1967)? Are there other notable examples of tampering with your scripts?
RB: A writer’s creations are his children, and nobody likes to see his child abused or molested.
MRB: You credit director Peter Duffell with transforming the last segment of The House That Dripped Blood (1971), “The Cloak,” into a comedy. How does it differ from your story and script?
RB: The film-studio touches, the atmospheric bits such as the background shot of the blood-donor campaign poster—these are proof positive of what an imaginative director can do to transform somewhat heavy-handed melodramatics into light comedy. But the trick is to do it with subtlety rather than the in-your-face techniques of today’s efforts; I think Peter Duffell knew exactly what was needed.
MRB: When writing The House That Dripped Blood and Asylum (1972), was it your idea to remake stories you had already adapted for Thriller (“The Weird Tailor” and “Waxworks”), or were the selections imposed on you?
RB: Amicus chose the stories, even though they were aware of previous radio and television versions I’d done. Personally, I prefer the teleplays.
MRB: Is it true that Asylum originally contained a humorous fifth segment that was trimmed before filming, and that the four segments that were filmed were reordered without your knowledge?
RB: That’s right. But I honestly can’t tell you what the other segment was, except that it too was adapted from a published story of mine. Its deletion is an example of what happens when I try to inject comedy into my scripts. Yes, the segments in Asylum were reordered without my being informed, and that wasn’t funny. What is now the first episode was written to be shown as the third; I felt that the mood and pace would be more effective in the order I chose. But I wrote my script in Los Angeles and the shoot was in England and never the twain shall meet.
MRB: As you’ve pointed out, your stories “Lucy Comes to Stay” and “The Real Bad Friend” may be considered precursors of Psycho. Were you afraid that including the former in Asylum might lead to accusations of merely trying to rehash your most famous story?
RB: I didn’t believe then, nor do I now, that many people confused my short story’s theme with that of Psycho. Or, for that matter, with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the father of them all.
MRB: Have you felt unduly constrained by the strictures of the medium while writing such projects as Curtis Harrington’s The Cat Creature (1973) and The Dead Don’t Die (1975) for television?
RB: The constraints of television are always a problem; again I must refer you to Once Around the Bloch for a complete account of the comedy of errors which ended up as The Cat Creature, through no fault of Curtis Harrington’s or producer Doug Cramer’s or, for that matter, mine.
MRB: How did you come to be involved with Irwin Allen’s miniseries The Amazing Captain Nemo (1978)? What was it like trying to continue the adventures of such a well-known and beloved character?
RB: That’s a question I still ask myself. Irwin Allen was, as you probably know, the greatest pitchman in the business. He made presentations with fabulous storyboards. Unfortunately, the stories which followed weren’t always that great. All I can painfully recall about The Amazing Captain Nemo is that the Captain wasn’t really amazing, or really very much like Jules Verne’s Nemo. After a script went through the producer’s hands it often ended up looking suspiciously like another Irwin Allen epic—usually a disaster.
MRB: Are there any of your works you’d particularly like to see adapted for the screen, or scripts you’ve written that were never filmed?
RB: I adapted my novel Night-World for MGM, but they never produced it. Since then a half-dozen other production outfits have approached me about the screen rights and I’ve referred them all to the present owners. Due to studio bookkeeping methods, with annual interest charges added to the cost of an unproduced property, I’d estimate that by now buying Night-World would cost slightly more than buying a complete studio at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with all the producers thrown in, which is exactly what I’d like to do with them. But I still believe the novel would translate into a successful film. I think the same holds true for several other books--American Gothic, Night of the Ripper or The Star-Stalker. And so would Lori. Then again, remember what I said about a writer’s creations being his children. It’s only natural for a proud parent to think his offspring would look good in pictures.
MRB: As one who has written horror stories for every medium for more than fifty years, what is your opinion of today’s horror films?
RB: If a filmmaker comes up with something as genuinely and justifiably frightening as The Silence of the Lambs, I’m all for it. But there’s more to true horror than sleaze-and-tease with revved-up soundtracks. As Anthony Hopkins demonstrated, it helps if the genre focuses on talented performances rather than making films which star special effects. What’s scary in real life can be scary onscreen without extra help. Remember that Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini wore no makeup. And neither do I.
(This interview initially appeared in Filmfax magazine #40, 1993 (as "Momma's Boy: A Conversation with Robert Bloch," and is reprinted here with the kind permission of the author.)